


Oblivious

by wendymarlowe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-Hogwarts, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: Alarmed at the population changes the war wrought, the Wizengamot has enacted a "marriage law": every witch between twenty and forty must get pregnant or prove she's at least making regular attempts. (More like a sex law, really - luckily someone realized marriage isn't strictly required for making babies.) Hermione Granger has finished her arithmancy mastery and has no intention of settling down or having children yet. Especially with Ron, who doesn't understand why she'd need a career. Or see the problem with government-mandated copulation.Thus, a bargain with the devil: she approaches her former potions professor for help. Severus Snape is intelligent, practical, and adept with memory magic, which makes him a perfect candidate for "making attempts." If he'd agree to regular sessions of sex and then obliviating her afterward, she could follow the letter of the stupid law and give the baby up for adoption without having to go through the messy unpleasantness of sex and derailing her life.If only life were that simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I haven't abandoned my Sherlock WIPs, y'all - I've just been going through a Harry Potter phase for the last few weeks and this story is the strongest "I want to read this but it doesn't exist yet so I have to write it myself" I've had in a long time. Expecting this to be ~8K all told :-)

Hermione took a deep breath, smoothed the frizziness from her hair as best she could despite the heavy drizzle battering at the edges of her impervius charm, and knocked on the door of the small cottage in front of her. It wasn’t at all what she would have pictured for Professor Snape at retirement, after living in the dungeons of Hogwarts as the head of Slytherin for so long, but perhaps he--along with everyone else after the war--was ready for a change of pace.

A moment later she was facing piercing dark eyes and a painfully familiar scowl.

Maybe not such a change after all.

“Miss Granger, what a pleasant surprise to find you on my front step,” he said without intonation. “Or is it Mrs. Weasley now?”

“You must not read the Prophet.”

“As little as possible.”

“It is neither. May I please come in?” She offered a hesitant smile. “I apologize for the intrusion, but the matter is somewhat urgent.”

He raised one elegant eyebrow. “By all means.” And he stepped back to let her through.

The quaint outside of the little house belied a surprisingly cozy sitting room--wizarding space, she realized immediately. It had to be, to hold all the bookshelves lining the walls. The fireplace was lit and there was a book open face-down on the nearest armchair. She must have disrupted his cozy afternoon reading in front of the fire.

“You didn’t marry Potter, did you?” he pressed. “From his awkwardness surrounding his affair with Miss Chang, I always assumed he was more inclined toward--”

“He and Draco Malfoy have been dating for nearly a year,” she interrupted him. “And Ron and I broke up three months ago. Rita Skeeter followed me for weeks and I’m still getting howlers from witches I don’t know. I finished my Arithmancy mastery this spring, though, so technically I’m Mistress Granger now. Odd as that feels.”

He inclined his head toward the armchair opposite his own. “Sit, _Mistress_ Granger, and tell me what is so important you convinced Minerva to breach my Fidelius Charm.”

Hermione flushed. “She didn’t want to, at first, but I said you deserved to decide for yourself.”

His scowl was the opposite of reassuring. He sat and waved his hand impatiently for her to continue.

“I… you are familiar with the new law the ministry just passed, correct?”

A nod. “In a general sense. One I’m fortunate enough to escape, as I will be experiencing my fortieth birthday this winter.”

“You’d escape it anyway--it only applies to witches. Every witch between the ages of twenty and forty, no exceptions, must produce a child by the end of next year or be able to swear under veritaserum that she has been making weekly ‘attempts.’ It’s a marriage law that hasn’t been enacted in six hundred years.”

“For all the fervor decrying blood purist beliefs,” he noted dryly, “the Wizengamot seems to be awfully focused on bolstering wizarding bloodlines. Although there is no marriage requirement this time around, or so I hear.”

“Thank Merlin.” That had been under consideration, apparently, but some bright soul must have pointed out that marital status has very little to do with the actual act of procreation. “I already didn’t want to marry Ron; a legal sanction would have made Molly Weasley’s haranguing impossible.” No, marriage to anyone was not in the cards until Hermione was _good_ and ready, thankyouverymuch. “Unfair that wizards are under no such decree, of course, but I suppose the Wizengamot doesn’t much care who the sires are as long as they’re not muggles. Got to keep up the wizarding population.”

Snape regarded her steadily. “I fail to see, Mistress Granger, how this concerns me in the slightest.”

“You…” Hermione swallowed. Of course now that it came down to it, she didn’t know how to start. “I came to ask a favor,” she finally admitted. “I have no interest in becoming a mother at this stage of my life, but I have little choice. If I am to be forced to procreate, at the very least I want to ensure the baby has the best genetic advantages it can before it goes to an adoptive family who want it. And I would like you to be the father.”

There was a long silence at that.

“Am I to believe,” he finally drawled, “that you are asking me to fuck you?”

The precision he put on the “K” in “fuck” sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “I suppose I am,” she replied, head high. “A weekly standing appointment, if you’re amenable. And I would like for you to obliviate me afterward.”

“No.”

Hermione found herself unexpectedly fighting for breath. _I never considered he might refuse!_ “Sir, I don’t like… that. Sex. If I must allow myself to be impregnated by someone, I have no wish to remember the experience. And if I’m obligated to repeat the assignation weekly, I can’t risk this with anyone else. I don’t want to end up like Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“So you come to me, a former Death-Easter whom you have always loathed, because you have resigned yourself to being raped regularly and you believe I will at least repair your mind after I defile your body?”

When he put it like _that_ , it sounded terrible. For both of them. “I don't loathe you," she said quietly. "I'm not only asking because you’re excellent at memory work, Professor. I… I trust you.”

“More than you trust your dear Mr. Weasley.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

 _“Please.”_ He had to agree--she _needed_ this. Merlin, she’d gone round and round on it for ages, second-guessing herself, but ultimately the chance of getting through the year with her dignity relatively intact was more than worth the risk of her former potions professor hating her forever. “I have money, if that helps. If you--I would be willing to use polyjuice potion if you don’t want… if my current looks are insufficient--”

“I have no issue with your looks,” he interjected. “Beyond the fact that I am nearly twice your age and surely you must have potential sperm donors beating down your door. Why come to me, Mistress Granger? Surely the act of sexual congress isn’t so odious you don’t have _some_ one you would consider suitable?” He paused. “Or is it the male gender as a whole you dislike?”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m not… well, let’s just say I’ve have enough sex to know I find it messy and uncomfortable and thoroughly unromantic.”

“Indeed.”

He didn’t look like he believed her. That wasn’t surprising; what little experience she had was mostly very recent. Ron plus one ill-advised one-night stand, actually. The one-night stand had been shortly after she broke up with Ron, in hopes that maybe the horrid sex was Ron’s fault. The drunk muggle she’d let pick her up was even worse, though, so that was that. She was going to die alone at age two hundred, surrounded by a pack of half-feral kneazles.

“Asexuality is a perfectly valid sexual orientation,” Hermione primly informed him. “It wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for this blasted law.”

He raised a bored hand. “Spare me the lecture--I know the term. I’ve benefited from it often enough.”

 _Oh._ Hermione blinked. “It didn’t even occur to me. Are you--”

“No, Mistress Granger, I do not identify by that label. Although allowing certain individuals in the Dark Lord’s inner circle to believe I was… unable to perform, I’ll say… saved me from participating in a number of unsavory activities over the years.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed.”

He regarded her silently for a long time. Hermione fought the urge to fidget--he hadn’t kicked her out yet, and that was a good sign. Hopefully the silence meant he was considering it. Or at least considering letting her down gently. As out of character as that might be.

“Well?” she finally asked, when she couldn’t stand it anymore.

He huffed. “I would have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“I’d require you to conform to my schedule, for one. I brew specialty potions for private suppliers; many require adherence to a strict timetable.”

Hermione let out a soft sigh of relief. “Of course.”

“I would also insist that this be kept a secret--Minerva may have divulged the location of my residence to you, but I have no interest in becoming fodder for the _Daily Prophet_. That includes telling any of your friends about our arrangement.”

“Noted.” That wouldn’t be difficult--the spectacularly messy break-up with Ron left Hermione avoiding the entire Weasley clan and everyone associated with them, which was pretty much everybody she knew. Harry was the only one refusing to openly shun her, and his own “Golden Boy” patina was scuffed by the fact that The Boy Who Lived turned out to be The Boy Who Preferred Wizards To Witches. The more traditional wizarding families were, unsurprisingly, backwards when it came to same-sex relationships. The Malfoy name wasn’t exactly helping his and Draco’s case, either.

“Two more things,” Professor Snape declared. “One is that, should a child occur from this arrangement, I will be consulted when it comes to making arrangements for the child’s future. Not--” --he forestalled her argument-- “--that I plan to dictate what you should or should not do in terms of procreation, despite the new law. Simply that you will not keep me from information about my future biological progeny.”

Hermione bit her lip, but she nodded. She’d have to trust him. This whole bloody arrangement would take mountains of trust, on both their parts, and for a moment she boggled that she’d ever had the courage to approach a man like Severus Snape with such a momentous proposition in the first place. But he was agreeing, wasn’t he? Mostly?

“And the other?” she asked.

“Yes. The final stipulation.” He leveled her with a serious look. “ _If_ I am to entertain the ludicrous notion that you’re asking me for some sort of regular sexual intercourse, you will decide at the end of each assignation whether or not you want that experience obliviated. Then, and only then, will I agree to perform memory modification on you. Do you understand?”

“You… why?”

“Because, Mistress Granger, I refuse to indulge in sexual relations with an unwilling victim. This is a line I have drawn years ago and I will not cross it, even for you. Consent is not consent if we both know, going in, that you will not remember it afterward.”

“But you’ll let me decide?”

He bowed his head. “We will both have the option to stop things, at any time, for any reason. You will not question me and I will not question you if that occurs. In terms of obliviation, though, it will be your choice and yours alone.”

“And if I do prefer to forget…?”

“...I will remove exactly as much of the memory as you request. No more, no less.”

Hermione stood and offered a thoroughly muggle handshake. “In that case,” she declared, “I appreciate your help.”

He took it. “Here, Saturday night at seven PM?” he asked. “I would say the pleasure is all mine, but in this case…” He pulled her in close and leaned down to murmur in her ear. _“I very much hope it will not be.”_

Hermione shivered.

What did she just get herself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - not tagging this as ace!Hermione because there's smut ahoy and she realizes she only hates sex when it's with someone not who isn't Snape :-P but feel free to decide on your own labels for these two idiots as they go on through the fic.


	2. Chapter 2

She spent most of the rest of the week dithering about what to wear, what to expect, and whether a bottle of wine was a suitable offering to bring. What was an appropriate “I’m not here entirely by choice but given the circumstances, please shag me anyway” gift? Professor Snape was probably more the firewhiskey type, but Hermione knew she had no head for hard liquor and sharing anything stronger than wine with him would probably be a bad idea. Although perhaps getting a bit drunk might help with the jitters…

In the end, she decided on bringing the wine and on wearing a simple muggle sheath dress underneath her warmest robes. It wasn’t anything extravagant, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was one of the nicer things in her closet and Harry had once told her the cut was particularly flattering. He was a more trustworthy arbiter than Ron, whose appreciation of witches’ fashion started and ended with how much cleavage the outfit put on display. Not all that much, in this particular case, but the V-neck made the most of what she had. At least once she was obliviated she wouldn’t have to remember Professor Snape’s reaction if he sneered at her less-than-plentiful breasts.

As long as he was capable of impregnating her, it didn’t matter what he thought.

Maybe if she told herself that enough times, she’d start to believe it.

Snape didn’t make it easy, of course. He received her at his door at seven on the dot, beckoning her in from another miserably wet day and graciously freeing her of both her outer robe and the wine bottle.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” she said, “so this is my mother’s favorite rosé. I’m not a big wine connoisseur, sorry.”

“It will be lovely with dinner, I’m sure. I hope you haven’t already eaten?”

She hadn’t, but that was mostly because butterflies were already taking up all the room in her stomach and she hadn’t had an appetite all afternoon. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she blurted out. And then inwardly kicked herself at how rude that sounded. “I mean, no, I haven’t, but I didn’t mean for you to have to go to all that trouble for me. Especially if I won’t remember it anyway.”

A hint of amusement flashed across his otherwise-inscrutable expression. “I will,” he said simply. “And I would like to share a meal before I start tearing your clothes off. A bit gauche, otherwise.”

Gauche and embarrassing as hell, but that was only to be expected. Somehow in all her fretting, Hermione had yet to envision how that transition would go. How does one cross over from polite conversation to being mutually nude? The idea of Severus Snape chatting her up in a muggle bar was laughable, and her only other real-life experience was with Ron. Whose appreciation of foreplay was… limited, at best.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said aloud. “Potions isn’t all that different from cooking, really. It’s just that after so many years at Hogwarts, I suppose I assumed that wasn’t something you’d ever needed to know.”

He led her from his cozy sitting room into a small kitchen where two plates of pasta were already waiting on the counter under a warming charm. The room was barely enough for the appliances, about an arm’s length of counter space, and a wooden table with two worn chairs. Hermione startled when he magically pulled out her chair for her, but she managed to not _actually_ fall over in a embarrassed pile of surprise and nerves.

“I made penne primavera with the first of this year’s crop from my greenhouse,” he declared. “The rosé will complement it well.”

“It smells delicious,” Hermione told him. “You have a greenhouse? With muggle vegetables?”

“With a number of things, several of which are non-magical.” He handed her a glass of the wine and took the seat opposite, then cancelled the warming charm and floated their plates over to them with an impressive wandless command. “Ever since I retired as headmaster and re-settled here, I’ve enjoyed having the time to tend things properly.”

“As well as to brew potions without schoolchildren interrupting you all the time, I assume.”

“There is that.” He smiled at her--an actual honest-to-Merlin _smile_. “Despite my warm and amiable reputation at Hogwarts, I’ve always been more of an introvert at heart. If I never see another first-year again it will be too soon.”

“Same. About the introvert part, at least. I don’t imagine many children being all that eager to discuss arithmancy, even if I were interested in teaching. Which I’m not.” 

“A wise choice. Research, then?”

To her astonishment, he turned out to be passingly familiar with the work of her arithmancy advisor and was able to hold up one end of a lively debate which carried them through the rest of the meal. Her mastery project had focused on ways to integrate muggle technology with a variety of traditional arithmantic approaches. Most purebloods among the faculty derided the idea, but luckily the head of the arithmancy department was a half-blood witch who understood what Hermione was trying to do. Eventually even the most stubborn purists at the Edinburgh Academy had to admit that yes, computer databases and the judicious use of Hermione’s arithmantic query software were far more efficient than doing everything by hand.

“I will look up that article you suggested,” Professor Snape said as the conversation started to draw naturally to a close, “and I hope you don’t mind if I have more questions for you when we meet next week. It was so much easier to keep abreast of new magical theory when I was in regular contact with my colleagues at Hogwarts. That may be the one thing I miss.”

“The only thing?”

His nostrils flared. “You think there should be more? Playing espionage errand-boy to two powerful but stubborn wizards with the fate of the magical world at stake, perhaps? Or maybe trying to keep a stubbornly danger-prone Gryffindor alive long enough to bring down the Dark Lord? I certainly don’t miss the dunderheads in my potions classes.”

“You weren’t such a fan of the know-it-alls, either.”

“A different flavor of exasperation.” The sneer in his voice disappeared. “Please understand,” he said. “Every single day of my teaching career, I was forced to work toward several goals at once. Some of them contradictory. Assuaging the intellectual curiosity of my brightest students was unfortunately never able to be my top priority. Nobody died in my class and I consider that a minor miracle.”

Hermione bit the inside of her lip to avoid arguing with him. She’d had overlapping goals at Hogwarts, too: to acquire an education, to learn about magical culture, to help defeat Voldemort when none of the adults around them were willing to do what needed to be done. Merlin, she’d even spent the better part of a schoolyear sleeping in the woods with Ron and Harry and a cursed locket instead of enjoying the chance to study her favorite subjects at the advanced level she’d always yearned for. The arithmancy mastery went a long way toward assuaging that hole in her, but she was never going to get her seventh year back. That truth stung nearly as much now as it had when she was seventeen.

“I acknowledge that some of us may have made teaching difficult,” she finally said. “And the injuries over the years were nothing compared to what they could have been, given the substances we were working with. But surely there’s some happy medium between your totalitarianism and Professor Slughorn’s careless plutocracy. Some way to allow students to learn without constantly having to look over their shoulders.”

“That, Mistress Granger, is what gets students killed.” He stood and banished their dishes with a flick of his wand. “Totalitarianism, as you call it, is the only truly effective way to keep discipline in a classroom. As I’m sure you experienced in your other courses. Or has Minerva mellowed in her old age?” He gestured toward the sitting room. “Come, you can present the rest of your jeremiad in more comfortable surroundings.”

Hermione blinked. “I don’t know that one, sorry.”

“A jeremiad is a long lament on the state of society and its moral failings.”

She returned his raised eyebrow, but followed him over to the sofa. “A bit exaggerated, you think?”

“Fine, then. Harangue me at your leisure.” He summoned their wineglasses and handed hers to her. “I, for one, intend to enjoy this lovely rosé and to indulge in a bit of _lesson planning._ Wherein the lesson is in rather more carnal pleasures than were taught at Hogwarts.”

The stark reminder of her true purpose in his home struck Hermione mute. She opened her mouth, closed it, flushed, then drank a larger gulp of her wine than she intended. The resulting coughing fit let her former professor slide smoothly closer until their legs pressed together from knee to hip as they both perched on the center sofa cushion. He thumped her sharply on the back, then slid a hand beneath the waterfall of her hair and squeezed the nape of her neck in a calming gesture. Hermione found herself leaning into the pressure without any conscious thought involved.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “Nerves catching up with you?”

She nodded.

“Still want to continue?”

Hermione nodded again. Silently bobbing her head up and down was all she could do now, apparently. Professor Snape’s thumb and forefinger were gently massaging the base of her scalp with tiny circles and the sensation drove all her words away.

“Here’s what we’re going to do then,” he declared. He took her glass with his other hand and slid it onto the low table in front of them. “You’re going to close your eyes for me and I will help you relax. Say the word and I’ll slow down or stop at any time, understood? I strongly suspect your sample size is too small to conclusively prove you don’t enjoy sex--and I relish the thought of showing you exactly what my argument could be.”

 _Oh, yes._ Another nod. Her eyelids drifted closed of their own accord and she felt a sense of calm whisper over her. It was almost like being under the Imperius curse, except she was still in full possession of her senses. Senses which were heightening by the second, as Professor Snape continued massaging the tension out of her neck.

“Good, very good. My brave Gryffindor.” His touch firmed minutely, and his voice drew closer until she imagined she could feel his breath against her skin. “You may not trust me in everything, but you can trust me in this. You’re safe here. I intend to take care of you, to bring you more pleasure than you could have possibly dreamed about.” His breath did tickle her cheek, now, a byproduct of his deliciously low voice whispering in her ear. “Tell me when you’re ready, Hermione, and I’ll show you just how good a teacher I can be.”

Gods, his _voice._ Her name, in that rich baritone…

How could she resist?


	3. Chapter 3

“When you’re ready,” he murmured, “I want you to open your eyes and focus on mine. Have you any experience with Legilimency, apart from what you may have read in a book?”

“Books don’t count?”

“Not with this, Mistress Granger. Right now I plan to simply hold you and take stock of your thoughts on the matter, if you’ll permit me. As I presume you have something in mind for what you do and do not expect to happen this evening?”

Merlin, did she ever. The mechanics of sex wouldn’t be all that different than they were with Ron, obviously, but imagining that sort of intimate act with _Professor Snape_ felt odd but so very right at the same time. He’d all but disappeared after the war; it had taken concerted effort to track down the identity of his secret keeper and then to dredge his location out of Professor MacGonagall.

“What do I do?” she asked. Her voice didn’t even quaver, something which made her feel strangely proud of herself.

He gave her nape one last caress and then slid his arm down to encircle her waist. “Simply make eye contact,” he replied. “You may push forth certain memories or fantasies if you wish, but that’s not a requirement.” His voice dropped to a low murmur. “You’ll discover I’m a _very_ good Legilimens, Mistress Granger. This is too important to leave to the vagaries of spoken language, is it not? I know voluntarily opening your mind to another takes a tremendous amount of courage and trust. Believe me when I tell you I don’t take that trust lightly.”

Hermione twisted to put a hand on his opposite shoulder, forming a light embrace, and opened her eyes.

His face was close, close enough she could make out the faint hint of wine on his breath mixed with the stronger odor of mint. Breath-freshening spell, or toothpaste? It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he put as much effort into making himself presentable as she had. That was a good sign, surely? She straightened her shoulders and met that coal-dark gaze with her own.

“Legilimens,” he said.

***

Hermione was lying in her bed, staring up at the freshly-painted ceiling. She’d gone on a redecorating spree after her horribly awkward break-up with Ron and his subsequent move to Manchester. Magical interior design was orders of magnitude simpler than the muggle way--not only did she not need to buy anything new, she also was able to try several color schemes before deciding on the current light yellow and maple wood. The whole room felt sunnier now, even though it still had a north-facing window. The morning light slanted through the sheer curtains and left her basking like a cat on her duvet.

She’d been having a lovely dream. Already the details were fading away, but the tingle in her groin was slower to subside. Odd how she’d never been in the mood for morning sex when sleeping with Ron, who wanted it all the time, but now that he was gone she luxuriated in her arousal more often than not. She had time…

 _Snape, of course._ Lately her fantasies had all followed one track, and that track led to the man she hadn’t seen since the final battle at Hogwarts. Obviously nothing could have happened while she was a student and Voldemort was still alive, but now…

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione turned and beamed at the man as he lounged in her doorway. He was in his teaching robes-- _no. Muggle clothes. Black jeans and a tight black t-shirt. One that rides up when he puts his hand up against the doorframe._ The Snape in the doorway obediently flashed into a mouth-watering all-black ensemble, from his dragon-hide boots to his shoulder-length hair. And his piercing dark eyes… _Merlin._

“You like this,” he murmured. “You want me to lick that lovely quim until you can’t stand it anymore, don’t you.” He stalked closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You like the idea of me looking just like this, utterly fuckable, and stripping you bare until you’re panting for me while I’m still perfectly composed.”

Her hand slid down inside her knickers without requiring conscious thought. _Yes. Hell yes._

Fantasy-Snape must have either read her enthusiasm on her face or needed no instructions in a daydream, because he raised her bare foot up to press the sole against his straining flies and wandlessly vanished her pyjamas. She never wore a bra to bed, so his magic left her in a lacy blue pair of knickers and nothing else. Not the knickers she’d been wearing before--those were old and white and not at all sexy--but apparently her mind was capable of fixing that sort of thing when fantasizing about her former potions professor.

“Stop thinking so much,” he said. “Feel how hard I am for you right now. How much I want to make you scream with pleasure. Only you.”

She wiggled her toes against his erection and was rewarded with a lovely intake of breath.

“Merlin,” he muttered. “You’re going to be the death of me, witch.”

Hermione was honestly too aroused to worry about such trivialities as death when Snape was looking at her like _that._ Like he wanted to devour her whole and then lick her off his fingers afterward.

“Oh, that’s a lovely image.” He shifted her leg to the side and crawled onto the bed, planting himself squarely between her spread knees. “Keep thinking those dirty thoughts for me, and I will endeavor to live up to them. Like this.” He ghosted his fingertips up the insides of her thighs, causing her to splay her legs wider and shiver. “A light touch, Miss Granger, is essential in both making potions and making love. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded wordlessly. Not that there were many words still in her head to pick from, not as his fingertips reached her iliac crease and traced along the edge of her knickers. Up, down, up, down. He leaned closer and simply _breathed_ on her, and her hips bucked entirely of their own accord. Her knickers were damp enough she could feel the warmth of the air from his lungs.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “So responsive. I love the lace on these--is this a real pair you actually own, or merely your imagination?”

“Real,” Hermione squeaked out. “New. Nobody’s ever seen them.”

“I’m honored.” And he leaned down to lave at her through the thin fabric. Without prompting, he caught her hips and held them up away from the mattress while he worked with his lips and tongue. She had no leverage as a result--could do nothing except lie limp in his hold and enjoy the sensations. The silk muffled his touch just enough to keep her from coming but not enough to hinder even the slightest bit of his damp, warm kisses all around her core except for the one place she wanted his mouth the most.

“Severus,” she groaned. “Please.”

He drew back with a wicked grin. “You beg so nicely,” he declared. “Again, but without the knickers in the way?”

"Gods, yes."

A moment and another wandless spell later and her knickers were wherever the rest of her pyjamas had gone. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with renewed promise before he dove back in.

 _Merlin_ , but it felt good. Hermione threw her head back and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Surely he’d know what she needed--it was her daydream, after all. Just a little harder, a little higher--

He redoubled his efforts. She shivered apart for what felt like _ages._

“ _There_ we go,” he said, sitting back up and licking his lips, chasing every last drop of the evidence of her arousal. "You are a treasure, Miss Granger. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Hermione blushed. “I… thank you.”

“I relish applying this knowledge to your real-life person very soon. As far as ice-breakers go, this has by far been the best I’ve experienced.”

 _Real life?_ Hermione frowned. Her dream Snape had never before indicated he knew he was only a fantasy. He had to be, given that the man had vanished from the wizarding world and certainly was intelligent enough to not be found if he didn’t want to be. There was something big she was missing… something she would remember in a moment if only she could _think_ …

***

“Informative,” Snape said quietly.

Hermione blinked several times as the reality of her situation came back to her. The fantasy he’d just viewed in her head had been just that--a memory of a particularly pleasant daydream from a few months back. Had started as a memory, anyway. The end was...well. Professor Snape was alive, sitting on the couch practically curled around her, and close enough to kiss if she were courageous enough to try. _Lot of good being a Gryffindor does me_ , she grumbled at herself.

But then it didn’t matter, because he was kissing her instead.

Merlin, the man was _good_. He tasted of wine and mint and masculinity, in a way Ron never had. Never _would_ , probably. If he hadn’t matured by twenty-two he wasn’t going to mature at all. Professor Snape, on the other hand, kissed like it was a forgotten art and he was the only qualified instructor left on the planet. Hermione practically melted into his arms.

“You,” he informed her in between several teasing pecks, “are _exquisite._ I--” _peck_ “--am--” _peck_ “-- _honored_ to be one of the very few you’ve chosen to let see you with your guard down.” He caught her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. “I sincerely hope you choose not to obliviate our time together. Because it would be a crime, given what I intend to do to you this evening.”

“Oh,”Hermione breathed. That did sound promising.

“Yes, _oh._ ” His lips twisted into a slow smile. “Hermione Granger, would you allow me to accompany you to my bedroom? I have a fantasy to live up to.”


	4. Chapter 4

He must have cast a silent, wandless featherweight charm on her--that was the only explanation Hermione had for how she practically floated up the staircase to his room. The fantastically talented man kept one arm around her waist and was doing wicked things to her ability to think while he climbed the stairs backwards and somehow didn’t crash into anything. She’d assumed the size of the structure from the outside meant he must have been using wizarding space for the interior, but the enchantment must have been very strong indeed to provide the little cottage with a whole extra floor. Which was taken up entirely by a masculine but surprisingly comfortable-looking bedroom. There were bay windows on two sides and-- _oh!_ An _enormous_ four-poster bed.

“I’ve had enough of living in a dungeon,” he whispered against her skin. “You’re welcome to stay and see what the view looks like at sunrise. It’s possibly the second-most beautiful thing I’ve seen in this room.”

Hermione gasped as his tongue did something sinfully delicious against the side of her neck. “What was the most beautiful?” she asked.

“The way you’re blushing right now.” He drew back to hold her at arm’s length, studying whatever it was he saw in her face. Pinkened cheeks, dilated pupils, and an unbecoming gape, probably. “Given that we’re in my bedroom and I’m about to ravish you, would you possibly do me the kindness of allowing me to call you by your given name?”

“Of--of course.”

“And you may call me Severus. I noticed you did in your fantasy.”

_That’s because I always do now, in my head._ Sometime close to when her thoughts started revolving more and more around her former potions professor and became progressively more hopes than memories, he’d turned into “Severus” rather than “Professor.” Only in her most private moments, but apparently that was a major benefit to being a Legilimens: private moments no longer had to stay buried.

“Severus,” she echoed.

He growled and pulled her backward onto the bed, landing so her knees were straddling his hips. Their relative heights put his head at _exactly_ the right place to nuzzle at her right breast through the fabric of her dress, a task to which he immediately devoted himself. Gods, if only she’d worn something thinner! The heavy cotton fabric and the slightly padded lace underneath didn’t transfer anywhere near enough sensation. Hermione pulled her hair over her opposite shoulder, to prevent it from getting in the way, and eased the zipper on the back of her dress down as far as she could reach without contorting and thereby depriving him of his current point of focus.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Let me see your beautiful body, Hermione. Let me taste you.”

“It’s--it’s not _entirely_ beautiful,” she stammered. “There are scars--”

“Same.” He sat back and undid the top few buttons of his shirt, baring a pale neck criss-crossed with thin silver lines from where Nagini’s poison had radiated out underneath the surface of his skin. “I’m not a handsome man and I wasn’t even before the scars. And yet I’m in better health now than I’ve ever been. Neither of us ought to expect perfection.”

Hermione disagreed about the “handsome” comment--he was no Gilderoy Lockhart, obviously, but even at his most severe, he had a _presence_ about him that commanded attention. Now, with the stress of teaching and the Dark Lord gone, he looked younger than he had as a teacher. The changes left him with that same intense gaze but without the perpetual sour expression.

She didn’t say that, of course. Instead she nodded and shrugged out of her dress one shoulder at a time. The fabric slipped down to pool around her waist. Her new bra was one of the prettiest she’d ever owned and did have lace details, but there was nothing she could do about her inadequate bosom other than hope he didn’t let his disapproval show.

Instead of letting fly with some caustic comment, though, he slipped an arm around her waist to hold her to him and then ran his tongue along the filigree edge of each cup. Hermione sucked in a breath.

“Lovely,” he purred. “Will you take it off for me? I want to see.”

Her fingers were trembling so hard it took her two tried to undo the clasp behind her back. She was rewarded with a slight widening of his eyes before the flame returned to his gaze.

“That one was from Bellatrix Lestrange,” she told him quietly. “When I was held at Malfoy manor. A magical whip, I think--I wasn’t entirely conscious at the time. There are--there are others, too.”

Severus pulled her toward him and pressed a soft kiss against the raised scar where it cut across her lower sternum. “That was one of her favorite spells,” he murmured. “I’ve seen in action too many times. I’m sorry for your pain, Hermione.” He looked up into her eyes. “I am also in awe of the courage and dedication you and your classmates showed throughout the war. For all my complaints about Potter, you and he were able to do what twenty years of living a double life never did for me--you ended the pain for _everyone._ My efforts were to pay off a debt; yours were because it was right. A far nobler motivation.”

“It wasn’t--we didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Yes you did.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Potter was caught up in the prophecy that Dumbledore and the Dark Lord obsessed about, but you could have easily kept your head down and ignored the outside world. Gotten your education and gone on to study in France or America or anywhere else Voldemort wasn’t an imminent threat. Instead you stayed here and fought Dumbledore’s war. He should have never involved children.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I’m not a child _now,_ though…”

A low, raw noise escaped from his throat. “Very true. A fact I intend to take _thorough_ advantage of.” The long fingers currently splayed at the small of her back twitched, betraying a fracture in his iron control. “Gods, Hermione--you are a veritable banquet and I can’t decide what I want to sample first. Merlin only knows why you’d choose me, but I’m a selfish man and I’m not going to say no.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione said softly. “Although anytime you want to start, err, _filling your plate_ \--”

His free hand landed on her bare calf, then slowly ascended the back of her leg underneath her dress until he was caressing her arse over her knickers. Which were _not_ her most comfortable, but they had half the fabric of her usual and they matched the bra. Severus’s sharp intake of breath as his deft fingertips traced the lace along the crease of her bum made the itchiness worth it.

“I’m inordinately tempted,” he murmured, “to vanish your clothing completely. But I think you enjoy this, don’t you? You want me to unwrap you like a precious sweet so I can savor the taste.” He squeezed her arse gently, crushing her mons against the erection tenting his trousers. “In fact…”

With a dead sexy and completely non-magical display of strength, he flipped the two of them over and rolled her onto the mattress, then flipped them again so she found herself lying on top of him. Or rather on top of part of him, as he immediately hoisted her hips and started sliding his own body downward toward the foot of the bed.

“What are you--?”

“Savoring.” He batted her dress out of the way, obscuring him from her view completely, then held her up with one warm palm on each hip and pressed his face to her cleft.

“Severus!”

He didn’t answer, at least not verbally. She knew she was still wearing her knickers, but they might as well been banished for all he acknowledged them. Instead he steered her by her hips and proceeded to lick and suck his way to the fastest climax she had ever experienced. Hermione’s cry of surprise quickly took on another timbre altogether. It was a full ten seconds later that she realized her kneecap was stinging--and that she had just kneed him in the chest.

_Damn it._ “Sorry.”

“If some minor bruising is the price of seeing you fall apart, my dear Hermione, I consider it an excellent investment.” He extricated himself from her skirts and flopped heavily on the mattress next to her, looking exceedingly smug. _As he’s bloody well entitled to_ , she thought.

“Yes, well.” Gods, her clit was _still_ tingling with aftershocks. “If you wanted me compliant, you’ve succeeded.” She licked her lips. “That was significantly more intense than I ever thought it would be.”

“With your greasy potions professor?”

“With anyone.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, frowning at her. “You’ve never…”

“Ron frequently requested blowjobs, but declined to return the favor. ‘Too messy.’ Although...” She felt her cheeks heat all over again. “Well, disheveled looks good on you.”

“Post-orgasmic looks good on you,” he countered with a smirk. “Although I believe we’re meant to be attempting to create a future magical citizen, so once I get you undressed I warn you I’m quite eager to see your face at the moment in question with my own eyes.”

“Mmmm.” She might have been embarrassed at that thought once, about two hours ago, but him seeing her face meant she would get to see his. _Severus Snape, mid-climax…_ She shivered.

“Chilly?” he asked, running a hand over her bare back. Goosebumps trailed in its wake--definitely not from the temperature.

“Hang on,” she told him, and hoisted herself up far enough to grab her wand off the nearby dresser. One quick spell later, her rumpled dress and sodden knickers were in a pile on the floor. She considered a moment, then cast it again. His button-down quickly joined them. Much as she’d have liked to lay him back and take her time perusing him--and returning the intimate favor he’d just granted her--she got the feeling he was just as self-conscious of his body as she was of hers. That, and he was dead sexy lying there wearing only pressed black trousers and a smirk. She flipped over onto her back and quickly tugged him on top of her.

A corner of his mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile. “Eager, are we?”

She dropped her wand to the floor and wrapped her arms around his pale shoulders. “Would you believe cold?” she murmured, grinning back. “I was hoping you could _warm me up_.”

He snorted. “I refuse to lower myself to that level of innuendo,” he retorted. “The banquet analogy is as far as I’ll go.”

“So you won’t let me see that lovely cock you’re hiding?” She gave him her best leer--one he found amusing but also effective, judging from his facial expression. “You’ve already seen inside my head, so you know how much I’ve thought about how it will feel inside of me. How you’ll look pounding me into the mattress, the sensation of your hair brushing my skin as you work those lithe hips. How you could make me come from your voice alone… but I’d much rather it be your cock. How I could suck bruising kisses along your neck as you arched, bringing us to that peak together--”

“Merlin, witch!” he growled, and attacked her with a punishing kiss. One that had her writhing underneath him, pinned by strong arms and long legs and the searing heat in his eyes. He tore away for a breath, gasped a quick spell which flashed them underneath the sheets and left his trousers nowhere to be seen, and carefully ground his now-bare cock against her pubic bone. The taunting peeks Hermione got down the lengths of their bodies as they shifted were enough to have her halfway to coming again, even not taking into consideration the litany of soft masculine noises he was making above her.

It was the work of a moment for him to reach down and guide his member to the entrance of her soaked quim. He held himself there, suspended for one perfect moment, then he smoothly thrust home. He kept his hungry gaze locked with hers the entire time.

_Oooh._

Her imagination couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Severus Snape, fiercely focused on her, all that incredible power and control being channeled through the slow but steady pump of his hips as he slid his cock in and out of her slick channel. Every time he bottomed out it pressed against her still-sensitive clit, giving enough sensation to make her gasp but not so much she couldn’t hold on. Yet. He must have read her thoughts on her face, because soon each stroke ended with a little jolt that had her toes curling and every nerve in her body tingling at once.

“Severus,” she breathed. “Yes. Harder.” _Gods._ “Take me, please.”

His mouth fell open and he redoubled his speed. A fine sheen of sweat was gathering on his brow, and Hermione had the sudden crystalline thought that she wanted to lick it off. Wanted to lick all of him, actually, right now while he was so finely focused but so very close to snapping entirely. Would an open-mouthed kiss on his neck do it? Fingernails down his back? A tweak to his nipple, currently peeking out from his sparse thatch of dark chest hair?

“Do it again,” she implored him, keeping intense eye contact. “Legilimency.”

_“Legilimens,”_ he repeated.

Gods only knew she had little mental control left, but she tried anyway. Image after image, every lewd fantasy about him she could remember. All the ways she’d wondered, debated with herself about whether sex could really be worth the trouble… time after time, she came to the conclusion that _if_ it was, it could only be with him. Her hesitation to bother him, anger over the new law taking her choice away from her, and eventually the realization that she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t at least try. And, in the wake of that, all the dizzying daydreams about the possibilities...

In the end, it was his voice that put her over the edge. The way he growled her name, half curse and half prayer. It was impossible to tell which of them fell first, because the other immediately followed. Hermione clung to his back and held him against her as his hips jerked once, twice, again, involuntary spasms as he filled her with his seed. His body was heavy but welcome against hers as he went boneless, panting.

“Merlin's balls, Hermione,” he growled. “You are going to be the death of me.”

Hermione gave into the impulse to bury her face in his neck. Looking at his face suddenly felt too intimate, in the aftermath of what they’d just shared. “Not possible,” she murmured against his skin. “ _La petite mort_ , perhaps.”

His ribcage contracted with his huff of laughter. “Should have known you’d know French,” he said.

“I did the first six months of my Arithmancy mastery at Beauxbatons under Madame Sortilege.”

_“Bien fait._ Fuck, that was....” He rolled off to the side, keeping a proprietary arm around her waist, and his expression sobered. “Now is the time to decide: stay with me tonight? Or obliviate this evening and be nervous about doing it again next week and the week after that and the week after that?” He traced a finger down her cheek, pushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I can hope, but I don’t want to presume--”

“You should.” She snuggled closer, burrowing into the space between his chin and shoulder. “I thought the Legilimency thing would have made it obvious.”

He growled and pulled her tighter, then wandlessly tugged the sheet and blanket up over them to ward off any chill. “You’ll stay, then?” His voice was as mellifluous as ever, but there was a fragile quality to it that made Hermione’s heart break to hear.

“Yes,” she promised. And pressed a kiss to his pale, scarred collarbone. “I think you’ve demonstrated quite conclusively that perhaps my earlier opinions on sex were underinformed.”

His chest vibrated with his low hum of approval. “In the morning I can present further oral arguments, if you like.”

_Merlin._ Hermione melted against him. “Yes,” she murmured. “I believe I’d like to make some of my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I may yet come back with an epilogue, but I've got other things I'm in the middle of (fanfic and otherwise) so I'm marking this done for now. Subscribe if you like, and if/when I add another chapter you'll get an email about it :-) For updates on everything else I write, find me on Twitter at @wendyqualls or online at wendyqualls.com. I direct all my fanfic-related Twitter posts to @BenBatched so they don't spam everyone else, so I highly recommend following her too!
> 
> _La petite mort_ \- orgasm, or literally "the little death"
> 
> _Bien fait_ \- "well done"


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